


I Know You

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Assets & Handlers, Confusion, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Secret Relationship, low calorie angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: The Asset has a malfunction and Brock realizes who the Soldier was before he was the Fist of Hydra and has his first mission failure.Jack comforts him and makes an unreasonable request.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	I Know You

"Commander Rumlow," Director Pierce extended a polite hand as he raked his eyes over the Special Ops Agent heading Strike team Delta. "And I see you've selected Agent Rollins as your second... again."

Rollins was larger than his Commander by several inches and much broader. Where the Commander was all hardened muscles sculpted carefully over his frame, Rollins had the natural build with a wide chest and strong set of shoulders. Upon first glance it was almost laughable that Rumlow had been selected as Commander but upon closer inspection, there was no other way for it. 

"Yes sir." Unapologetic and prompt there was no hesitation in Rumlow's response.

Pierce schooled his features very carefully as he rose his watery blue eyes onto Jack Rollins, ex-army, who deadpanned back at him. He didn't seem nervous in the slightest, feeding directly off of the calm energy his Commander exuded. Excellent. The team dynamic was imperative for proper execution of the Asset in the field. Any confusion on who was in charge, any mixed signals about trust ended disastrously for those too poorly trained to be there. 

Pierce had lost his last Delta team and now Echo has been promoted to see if they could fill those shoes — because lord knows Bravo would just make things much worse. 

"The day I'm gone you boys will find yourself down to HR with codes slapped to your wrist," Pierce didn't want to make it a threat; it was more of a warning. "One could say you're a hindrance to each other."

Secretary Pierce may have held significant power but Hydra had a nasty habit of Chinese Whispers that assisted the upper level staff in figuring out what their agents were doing both in work and outside of it. Rumlow's face flickered between peaceful indifference and a pinched expression that begged rebuking all allegations. Pierce waited patiently for it. 

"I suppose we'll just have to keep you here as long as we can then, Sir." It was Rollins who spoke up and he said far more than most have ever heard him utter.

Rumlow gave him a sharp look but didn't show any outward aggression. Good — the Soldier fed off of aggression and it tended to affect his programming. 

"It's strictly professional Sir. In no way has our tactical ability been affected; our success — "

"Is outstanding. At ease, Commander. I am not here to call you out. Your promotion comes with a perk I think you will be very interested in." The Secretary strode down the corridor, Rumlow and Rollins on his heels. 

Rollins glanced down at his Commander, appropriately concerned and amused at all once. Too often they arrived together. Too often did others notice Rumlow's stench of Axe had changed to the same citrusy soap that Rollins smelled like. Hydra was not made of stupid agents and you didn't need to be a spy to see that they were seeing each other. Did it complicate things for the team? A bit, but on the field they kept it professional. Rollins was a good second, he had Rumlow's six. But he wouldn't risk the life of his team for him in the same way that if Rumlow fell in a place of danger, Rollins' role as the new Commander would be getting the team the fuck out. It was morbid and it was tough but it made them better; they excelled together. 

They wouldn’t say they were in love. Love was a word used have rough sex and way too much bourbon on the uncomfortable couch in Jack's den. However when Brock burrowed his face into the crook of Jack's neck and didn't mind that he wrapped his arms around him and squeezed so tightly. Safe, skin against skin, raw and just drunk enough to be too honest. Then love was a good word.

But at work, beside the Secretary, when Rollins was his second not his lover and protector, it was wildly inappropriate and just a little frightening. But Rumlow pushed it all aside for the moment to focus on the task at hand. 

"Tell me, what do you know about the Winter Soldier?"

•• •• •• •• ••

The mission was an easy one but it had been a long three weeks with only 48 hour turn arounds.

Delta was beaten down, utterly exhausted, and desperate for a break. The Commander was looking down at his tablet, trying to read the mission parameters again to ensure he had them down pat. They would infiltrate an enemy base and destroy their comm system, steal back Hydra's work, and kill everyone inside with a detonator. Simple. 

Except with so many working parts and so many specialists needed Brock was stuck with more team members than he usually dealt with. The Asset had been out of cryo nearly three weeks and had changed a bit since the first mission. The man dubbed Winter had started to pick up on some speech (and phrases, thank you Felton) as well as an almost childlike curiosity as his cooked brain started to fire neurons again. The technical team assured him it wouldn't hinder performance so long as he followed orders — he did but tended to pull faces afterward that looked really fucking close to pouting — no emergency evacuations would be authorized. 

To quote Agent Shaw in Communications upon the Commander expressing said concerns, "Nothing to worry about. He gets annoying, yeah but as long as he's following orders, he'll be fine. All the lucky Brockie."

Rumlow was sure as Hell writing him up for something (assuming the Soldier did not snap and murder him) when he got back to base. Cyers sighed loudly as his pack was thumped between his legs. The rest of the team cast a glance from their tablets where they too were reading up. Rumlow suspected now, with energy so low, a pep talk was needed but fuck it, he hadn't seen a decent bed in three weeks. His body hurt, he was filthy and he wanted to finish so he could go home and take a hot shower with a hot man. 

Rumlow found himself glancing down the jet where his second was glaring down at his tablet as if his anger could make the mission vanish. The thought was nice. He rested the back of head against the metal grate and rolled his eyes over the rest of the team. Thompson, Cyers, Allaire, Garth and the Soldier who had taken it upon himself to lay on his back across the entire bench. No one sat with him in fear of a malfunction but he hadn't been told to relax. Not that Rumlow thought the metal benches were comfortable. 

"Soldier what the fuck are you doing?"

He swung himself around quickly, quietly, and the rest of the team glanced in his way in partial curiosity and part apprehension. 

"Nothing." It was muffled by the mask but Rumlow was too tired to be bothered to get up and take it off. Besides, it was an unnecessary risk.

"Looked like you were lounging out. Does this look like a Hilton to you?" Stupid question, the Asset had no memories to tie that to.

The Soldier's brow furrowed and he didn't speak for a moment. "It's a plane sir." Was his genius reply.

"Yes so sit up and sit still or I'm tossing you out. Understand?"

The Asset looked alarmed and Rumlow wanted to snort. "I'll be good Sir. Don't let me fall again."

Again? Brock couldn't think of a single mission with him where they dropped any significant distance without a parachute. But the guy's head had been fried so much he was probably mixing it up with a different Handler. 

"I won't, so long as you behave."

The Soldier gave a small nod and went still for the rest of the plane ride. "Doesn't it scare you?" Allaire whispered. "When he...messes up?"

"He's not messing up. He just... Like a skipping DVD," 

"Actually Sir, everything has moved to BluRay which while in disk form — " Garth began.

"Shut up." Rumlow snipped. "The trick is to make sure he doesn't forget who he is and who the Commander is."

"Did you throw him out of plane once?" Allaire asked in a carrying whisper. 

The Asset's head shot up and he stared at them for a brief moment before he dunked it down, much lower. 

"No, you idiot. And watch what you're fucking saying." Rumlow was too tired to have the Soldier malfunction because some idiot triggered a bad command response. "Soldier, give me a hundred."

He had found that as long as he gave him an objective, he was less likely to act out. It made Rumlow think of his Nonna for some reason, she had some saying about idle hands being the devil's plaything. More like, idle hands leaves time for the Asset to decide he doesn't want to be there any longer and slaughters his entire team. 

"One hundred," the Soldier pushed himself back into his seat and Rumlow's jaw fell slack. 

The disrespect was obvious and so not what he was in the mood to deal with. He didn't need this mission going South because the soldier fucked up. 

"Get on your knees, both hands on your head."

It made his head hurt shouting those words and it startled poor Thompson from the doze he'd slipped into while he should have been looking over mission points. But he didn't blame the kid for being tired, everyone was. The Soldier had the audacity to look both frightened and confused as he obeyed, metal arm catching the late afternoon light streaming through the slim quinjet windows. Rollins rested his StarkPad on his knees and gave a curious but ultimately disinterested look toward Rumlow. 

"When you execute a command you hold your last fucking position until someone puts you at ease. Am I understood?"

"Yes." 

"You'll plank from now until we get ready to descend. If you fuck up, I put it in the report and you can tell the Secretary bout your inability to follow directions." 

The Soldier's face went ashy and he snapped into a plank far quicker than Rumlow had ever seen. If he was less run down he'd be annoyed that he alone wasn't more threatening than the Secretary but they had a special relationship that Rumlow wouldn't touch with a fucking ten foot pole. It scared the hell out of him too, frankly. 

With no other interruptions by the Soldier, the flight was quiet. Brock got all the parameters down to pat and as they got closer to the jump point assigned tasks to the rest of the team. Anders checked equipment while Rollins did a final inventory check. The goal was one night in the sandy safehouse and then they would be extracted tomorrow following successful completion of the mission. Brock nudged the Asset with the tip of his boot. "On your feet."

He was a bit red in the face and sweaty but that was still impressive for three hours of straight planking with the extra weight of his arm. Rumlow strapped on the vest and began the tiresome act of giving him far too many weapons: side arms, knives tucked in all sorts of places, grenades, and an automatic rifle. Once Rumlow had checked the final piece of equipment to the Soldier's person he removed the mask and the Soldier reached for the Commander's canteen with an eagerness that got him a well deserved hit across the face from the stun gun. It wasn't on but split open the skin on his cheek. 

"You don't fucking take anything." 

God this was so unnecessary — the Soldier knew all of this, it was a malfunction that would need to be rectified ASAP but as long as Rumlow kept control it wouldn't comprise the mission. He was nervous enough to hit him again. This one made him make a small wounded animal noise that everyone heard but everyone ignored. 

"I was gonna give you water but now you're not getting shit."

"Functionality will be affected." The Soldier's voice was pitched oddly and wavered a bit. 

Whining. The Fist of Hydra is whining.

Brock had to get on his tiptoes to grasp the soldier properly by the chin but when he did, he gave his face a shake. 

"You really think you can get away with lying to me about your maintenance Soldat?" The Asset's eyes widened as he realized he had truly angered Commander Rumlow. That name only came out when he was behaving very poorly. "Do you!"

"Functionality — " the soldier whimpered again.

"Your hydration level is above normal still. And you can be depleted of all fluids and perform at acceptable levels for seventy two hours. Do you really want to do that Soldat or will you cut the bullshit?"

The op wouldn't take two days and Rumlow wasn't cruel. Had the fucker not broken protocol he would have drinking all the lukewarm water he wanted. Actions come with consequences and they were still trying to teach that to the world's greatest assassin. The Soldier's head hung.

"I will comply." it was almost as robotic as normal but the tinge of sulking wasn't hid well at all.

Rumlow was too tired to punish him for that as well so he told Rollins to do his face. Jack gave him a very professional middle finger before he refastened the mask, giving it an extra tightening that wasn't exactly necessary but it made the Asset wince as the hard polymer sides cut into the bruises coloring under his skin from the baton strikes. Then he dug around for the tin of face paint, coloring around wary blue eyes carefully before he snapped the goggles on. The Soldier winced at that as well as any other ops who'd done underwater missions and had their goggles snapped. 

No one thought it was bad until it happened to them. The Sergeant at the time had shut it down real quick after Rumlow nearly socked the idiot who did it to him. He gave Rollins an unimpressed look and Rollins just gave him the same smirk as always. Brock gave the Soldier a once over before he turned away to prep his own gear. 

"How long?"

"Four minutes and counting sir," Allaire slipped her side arm into the holster. 

Brock re-checked his equipment. The Winter Soldier looked exactly as he should, menacing in full gear even stooping slightly to avoid hitting his head off the roof. Brock was always impressed with himself for handling him with as many that had come before him he was certain his work was more memorable. The soldier was thawed and looked around for him, despite the wipes. Rumlow probably should have reported that — the Soldier wasn't supposed to remember anything — but the Asset never knew his name. The mumbled 'I know you' was more question than statement. 

They lined up for the jump and the Soldier suddenly backed into him. The door had opened and wind rushed around them. There was still sixty seconds to the mark. His earpiece gave some backfeed before he heard Rollins' voice filter through: "Check."

Down the line Garth confirmed connection, then Allaire, then Rumlow who nudged the Soldier back into position wondered if he'd lost his footing or if Allaire had accidentally bumped him when clipping her pack. Once all connections were confirmed Rumlow reported, "Team Strike Delta is a go in thirty and counting. Land, keep visuals and try not to get fucking killed."

He was jostled backwards once more by the Soldier and his patience slipped. He clasped the back of his neck in his hand and yanked him down to ear level. "What the fuck is your malfunction?"

The Soldier uttered something lost beneath the roar of the wind and the engines and Rumlow saw that Rollins had jumped. "Best behavior or you're telling Pierce exactly how you fucked up this mission."

He pushed the Soldier forward and grunted as the metal hand clasped his wrist. He had dealt with aggression before but this felt different. The Soldier was cranking his head back to look at him and the hold wasn't tight enough to snap the bone which he could do with ease. 

… Fell out of a plane once? 

Okay, so maybe the Winter Soldier — assumed fearless — actually had a fear of heights. Brock wanted to roll his eyes...he was supposed to be the fist of Hydra! 

"You're perfectly safe Soldier," they were out of time. "I'll jump with you Okay?"

It was gay as hell but he grabbed the flesh hand with his free one. It was a risk and god forbid anyone see it. The Soldier tilted his face down at the hand but didn't pull away. 

"Safe." Rumlow said again. 

The Asset bobbed his head after a moment and Rumlow took a step toward the door. After a second of hesitation the Soldier did so as well. Jumping alone was one thing but with a Super Soldier there were a million more scenarios to worry about. The extra weight, ensuring he pulled the cord at the proper time... 

Then they were freefalling. Rumlow worked best when it life and death — why he was so good at his job, Rollins always said — and in that moment of body numbing adrenaline he knew exactly what to do. 

The Soldier was holding on to his hand, tight enough that it would probably hurt once his body began to feel pain again. Brock twisted around and caught him off guard with a tight hook. The Soldier's eyes snapped open and he pulled away seeming deeply offended. 

"Pull your fucking cord Soldat!"

The Soldier obeyed immediately and shortly after he was jerked upward, seemed to realize he was in the air. Brock pulled his shortly afterward. Formation was staggered as his boots settled down in the sand but his team came to his location. The parachute settled behind him as he worked circulation back into his hand, watching the Soldier drift down like some murderous leaf. 

"The fuck happened up there?"

"The Fist of Hydra got some jumping jitters," Brock sneered as he rubbed at the rapid bruising. His heartbeat was slowing but he could feel his hand throbbing. A fracture? 

The hand he had hit with felt sore too but that was standard when dealing with a thick skilled murderbot. "We're two klicks from the safehouse Sir." Garth reporter looking down at the GPS. 

The Soldier landed and knelt down as if he somehow couldn't stand. He was gonna get sand between his pressure plates and bitch about them all fucking night. 

"On your feet Soldier." Brock bristled. 

"You let go." The Soldier didn't comply, his face hidden behind a curtain of hair. "You let me fall again."

Again? Fucking again? He looked toward his Second but Rollins had already moved in to have his six, stun baton crackling ominously in the fading light. The Soldier's fingers had vanished into the sand and his back was arched with tension. That chilling whirring noise from within the arm sent tensions even higher. 

"Soldier, on your feet now."

"You let me fall again." Like a broken fucking record. 

It was sweltering Brock realized suddenly but that would change once the sun was down. Another reason he hated Middle Eastern ops — the temperature fluxes stressed him out. Give him constant hot weather or constant cold weather — the rest could take a fucking leap. 

"Soldat comply!" He tried once more, drawing out his weapon. "Pierce is going to heat all about this, you hear me Soldier?"

The Secretary threat was getting less effective it seemed. The Soldier straightened up to a kneel but didn't look at the agents. "Hit him," Brock instructed, frustrated and refusing to waste anymore time on this nonsense.

He was going to happily recommend a nice long session in the chair and gladly see the man into cryo. 

Jack rose the baton but didn't make contact, the Soldier twisting out of the way and darting to his feet. Brock held up his hand to pause Rollins from taking a second shot. The man's face was twisted in muted anger which was terrifying because even when he was tearing through men on the field he had a look of calm. The blaze in his eyes was wild. 

"Soldier," Brock tried to be reasonable one last time. "This is our first time jumping together. You had a parachute — you're fine."

"My arm!" He spoke in a strangled tone, accent strange and Brock couldn't place it. "I tried to catch my fall and-and... Last time I lost my arm."

He had lost control and pondered admitting defeat. 

"Okay, okay." Brock reached for his radio. "I'm sorry I let go. I had to pull my cord, right?"

The Soldier twitched a bit, looking around at the deployed fabric. "Parachute," He repeated in a warbling voice. 

"Yeah man. Didn't have that when you lost your arm right? Perfectly fine, the both of us."

The Asset touched his metal arm, running his fingertips over the plates as if to verify it was still intact. "Why did you let me fall the first time?" It wasn't aggressive or even confrontational; it a plea, a beg to understand. "Til the end of the line you said. Was...was that 'pose to be the end?"

Rumlow felt a bit sick to his stomach as the pieces fell into place. The Asset was James Buchanan Barnes, assumed deceased. Captain America's best buddy and he let him fall off a fucking train? 

"I, uh," Brock couldn't even begin to handle this within protocol. "Didn't make it there in time."

"You tried?" 

"Yeah, Winter. I tried. Now let's get going to the safehouse okay? Get you some food and uhm get those thoughts out of your head. Make you forget all about it."

Like a cord cut the Soldier went passive and even grateful. "Okay," 

"Okay," Rumlow gave him an awkward forced smile and fell into step behind him sidearm drawn — just in case.

Rollins pulled out his comm and waited for a nod of confirmation before he radioed in for an emergency evac. Rumlow's first ever mission failed due to malfunction and he was terrified of what waited — death?

•• •• •• ••

Rumlow was pacing.

The heavy steel doors had settled shut and through the one sided glass they watched the Soldier slumped over, post Chair session. The bite guard still poked from his lips, his head resting heavily on his shoulder. A line of drool connected the metal to his mouth. Pathetic and just a little sad. 

"Don't look so guilty." Jack said. 

Brock cast a disbelieving look toward Rollins.

The agent seemed thoroughly unbothered by being called to wait for Pierce to arrive, by having an emergency extraction, for a failed mission. Brock's exhaustion had given way to a giddy feeling of uneasiness. Each time he blinked his eyelids felt like sandpaper but these could very well be his last moments. He wanted Rollins to hold him if that was the case. Tell him "it ain't nothing," softly in his ear like he did when he felt Brock was overreacting about something. Even when it was serious, it calmed him. The rumble of his baritone through his back was enticing. Would they be in such a position again? 

"Breathe." His Second commented, now bothering to stand up straight. "You followed protocol."

"I lost control." Rumlow felt sick to his stomach admitting it. Where had he gone wrong? Thinking back, he could think of a million things he should have done differently. "I'm so fucked."

Rollins straighten up from resting against the wall. "Be more positive."

"I'm positively fucked." Rumlow deadpanned back.

A grin spread across Rollins' face, blood chilling and comforting all at once. He stepped toward Rumlow and clapped his hand on his shoulder. "That's the spirit Commander." 

He did not let go immediately, lightly kneading the tight, thickly corded muscles there a moment. Rumlow would never admit to liking his massages but Christ, when he got home after a stint in Cuba with a pile of paperwork to be completed, his entire body was knot up cramps from the poor sleeping arrangements and tension, Brock would bitch and moan over every little thing he could before he would admit to needing a massage but Rollins knew that when Brock started snapping about how he loaded the dishwasher that he needed some custom R&R. 

Rollins dropped his hand all too soon and Rumlow felt at ease enough to shoot him a small glare. Rollins leaned heavily against the wall again and rolled his eyes toward the Soldier. The poor bastard was playing tug of war with the mouth guard and the labcoats were skittering nervously around him. 

"Fuck is wrong with them?" Rollins grunted. "Just yank it out."

"Nerd strength." Brock managed to crack a smile at the old banter. 

It was soothing in a way. When Pierce arrived, he looked wildly out of place among the medical staff and those clad in tactical gear around the base. The suit was expensive and tailored and the aging man looked stiff as he walked. That made Rumlow nervous; his experiences with the Secretary were limited but he always eluded a cocky sense of entitlement that spoke to Brock on a very personal level. 

"A lapse in programming." Pierce looked grimly through the window. "I reviewed audio records of your statements. Commander, you followed protocol. Too much time out of cryo it seems."

Brock felt the breath he was holding rush out. "Failure is never acceptable. If you'd let Delta try again, without the Asset we — " 

Rumlow knew his team was beat and needed a rest but he couldn't let them become obsolete over this failure. They were too good; they had worked too hard. 

"Commander, whenever the Soldier malfunctions to that level he slaughters his entire team. You managed to calm him and get him extracted with no injuries." A tired smile graced Pierce's face and Brock wouldn't ever admit how much that meant. "You and your team deserve a break as a reward. And your leadership will not be forgotten. Two weeks off and when you're back the Asset will be reprogrammed and in tip-top shape for you."

Rumlow was speechless. Time off always felt a punishment but this...felt different. "Thank you sir." 

He nodded curtly and then a brief flicker of humor passed his features. "Perhaps you'll both take a trip," he mused reminding them he recalled the conversation ahead of time. "Take it easy."

Pierce scanned his card and stepped into the room. Rollins and Rumlow watched him cross the room, parting the labcoats in some weird rendition of a bible story, and cracked the back hand across the Soldier's face. The mouth guard skittered to the white tiles coated in bloody, foamy saliva and Rollins nudged Rumlow with his hip lightly. Rumlow turned away, grateful for the distraction and so tired he fell asleep in Rollins' truck. 

•• •• •• •• ••

Rollins grew up in rural Virginia, the sort of redneck place that Rumlow avoided like the fucking plague in his adult life.

It reminded him too much of his own trashy childhood, before his old man went to prison and he was stuck in a trailer with shitty foster parents and six unruly and cruel children before they got closed down and he was carted off to his grandmother. But, all that shit aside, Rollins made him feel comfortable.

He didn't mind Jack dropping by his place every once in a while. He brought booze and he knew how to cook which was a nice reprieve from grocery store prepared meals or take out. But it wasn't as private; he had nosey ass neighbors who liked to peer around the door frame. Rumlow knew better than to trust anyone; they could be no one or they could be Hydra or SHIELD or KGB. It was too easy.

So, he relented to Jack's prodding to start spending more time at his house. 

Brock had trouble wrapping his head around the fact that Jack Rollins, stony faced killer, had a fucking farm house but he did. It was a fixer-upper that had come bounds from when Brock first sneered at its gutted interior and told Rollins he was a crazy stupid bastard for falling into the money pit. But, all of that aside, he had done a damned good job of it.

Jack was a man of many talents and while Brock would sooner die than admit it out loud, he was impressed and just a bit jealous. He liked to keep busy, always had something going, but normally he made time for Brock. Or, he forced Brock to help which wasn't so bad when it was holding a flashlight in one hand and a beer in another while he and Jack chatted during truck repairs. But come firewood season Brock would happily tell Rollins to fuck off — but somehow he always ended up doing it, manipulating bastard. 

Rumlow woke up in Rollins' bed, tucked under the covers like some hussy he hadn't been able to get rid of, bed cool beside him. The mattress was hard but the sheets smelled like fresh country air and Rollins which Rumlow loved. He was comfortable and content. He burrowed down below the blankets a bit and peered wearily at the clock. 

9:30pm? Christ. 

Brock stood up, stretched a bit and balked furiously as he felt the hem of a shirt creeping up his thigh. Fucking Jack! He could somewhat remembered his large hands pulling him out of his clothes and dressing him. His face felt hot and a weird fuzzy feeling settled in his chest. Rumlow should have been hot in the face, tearing off the gray tee shirt that smelled of Rollins' skin, the detergent he used that was so crisp and fresh, and just a bit like diesel from wearing it while working on his truck but he was powerless. 

Not that it wasn’t fucking humiliating when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He swam in the fabric which frustrated him a bit. He knew he was on the smaller side, not as tall and intimidating as Rollins but his entire body was hardened muscle. He ran a hand through his mussed up hair, the quiff sticking out in random places. He fussed with it a moment before he sighed in defeat. Didn't matter anyway, no one was around for miles except Rollins. He opened the bedroom door and stepped onto the landing. The floors were a bit chilly on his bare feet as he went down the stairs. His fingers trailed over the railing, thick sturdy oak that Rollins had cut down himself.

The kitchen was empty, the light above the sink all that was on. It cast low shadows and soft lighting around the space. He opened the fridge and found a plate wrapped in cling wrap for him. Steak, potatoes, a side salad in the bowl beside it. Brock bypassed it for now and grabbed a bottle of hard cider than he knew Jack only kept stocked because he drank it. 

He tracked down Jack in the living room, sitting in that stiff leather armchair that was just so very Jack with a book in one hand and a glass with an amber liquid sitting beside him on the side table. Brock drank in the sight a moment, such raw unfiltered masculinity from such subtly. Jack kept his spaces impeccably neat and uncluttered. 

"Sleeping Beauty has risen." Jack tilted the book down and smiled coyly, a friendly sort of mocking. "Dinner's in the fridge."

"If you'd woken me up I coulda eaten it hot." Brock shot back and cracked the top off the bottle. "The fuck you doing anyway?"

"Reading. You do know how to do that right?" He rose a brow as Brock flushed with anger that he quickly got in check with a snort. "Do you need me to to heat it up for you, Princess?"

"Fuck you," snipped Brock. 

"'Kay. Suit yourself," he went back to his book and Brock gaped for a moment. He always warmed up dinner when for some reason he missed it; he was the guest. 

"Rude." That was what Allaire always said when someone said something she didn't like and Jack knew it. 

"If you say the magic word," drawled Jack.

Brock ignored him, settling into the couch as far away from Jack as possible. He took a swig of his cider, sharp and tangy. "The fuck am I gonna do for two weeks?"

"I suspect that's up to you." Jack shrugged. "I was gonna visit my folks. Wanna come?"

Brock choked and sputtered on his cider. Jack crossed the room quickly and whacked him across the back once his coughs shifted toward shuddering gags at the forcefulness of it. Once he was able to wheeze in a breath he glared at Jack with watering eyes. "The fuck?" 

Jack's face was void of all emotion and he lifted and dropped his shoulders. "Just a question, Brock. Don't be so dramatic."

"Dramatic! What I show up and you say what?"

"That you’re my friend or whatever." Jack crossed his arms. "I don't see the big deal."

"They're gonna think we're both a coupla fags." Brock's tone was edging toward whining but he was too panicked to care.

"It's my parents and my sister and her kids." Jack looked down at Brock and he wanted bully him back or pull rank or maybe just run and hide. "No one can make you. Just thought it'd be nice for you to be around family, y'know."

"Nice," snorted Brock trying to hide how much that had wounded him. Just because he didn't have family did not make him weak or a charity case and fuck Jack for even thinking it. 

"And I would appreciate it." Jack turned away. "Imma heat up your dinner."

Jack would appreciate it. Brock knew he was going to end up going; he'd do anything for him and that he knew was a weakness. So fuck Jack for that too.


End file.
